A Line in the Sand
by KSCrusaders
Summary: In the calm before the storm, some bonds grow stronger...while others fray and unravel. Character study of Lady Hawke, Varric, and Sebastian after the Act 3 Faith quest.


A/N: So after an unfortunate misunderstanding on my last DA2 fic, I should clarify something. Sebastian is my favorite character in DA2 after Varric and Anders, and he has far and away the most fascinating dynamic with my Hawke. Why else would I write so much about him? :) I am mean to characters I like because it makes for fun angsty storytelling, and DA2 is a very dark game. So just a warning: if you want fluff or happiness, you are in entirely the wrong place. Hopefully that clears things up.

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><p><strong>A Line in the Sand<strong>

_By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

"Elthina sent us today to stop a holy war, not start it! Why in the Maker's name did you antagonize Sister Nightingale?"

"You heard her as clearly as I did. The Divine means to send soldiers, and damn the consequences. Your precious Elthina was just waving her hands around and covering her arse as usual."

"How dare you? She is the only person in this city trying to keep the peace."

"Then maybe that's the problem."

"Anders, I swear-"

"Will you two shut up before Hawke electrocutes your balls off? She's glaring again, and I don't want Bianca getting singed in the crossfire."

Thank the Maker for Varric. Natale Hawke rubbed her temples against the splitting headache creeping up on her and cast a grateful look at her dwarven friend. Anders and Sebastian continued to glare murder at each other, but fell mercifully silent as they made their way through the quiet streets of Hightown at night. Sebastian left them at the steps up to the Chantry, no doubt to tell Elthina what had just transpired.

It was the calm before the storm. An hour ago...ten minutes ago...everything had changed.

She felt like the stone under her feet was rapidly turning to quicksand. Her head spun with all the implications of what Sister Nightingale had said. An Exalted March on Kirkwall. She could wake up tomorrow morning and find the Divine's soldiers on her doorstep, Champion be damned, and the blood of dozens of mages running through the streets.

The old fear clenched her heart like a hand of ice. She suppressed a shudder at the images running through her head. Lowtown burning. Templars pouring from the Gallows. The water around the prison stained crimson.

"Hawke? This is Varric, calling Hawke."

Natale started from her morbid thoughts. "Yeah?"

"I'm going back to the Hanged Man," he said. She blinked-they'd almost made it to the gates that separated the estates from the stairs leading to Lowtown. "It's Wicked Grace night. You can get trashed and lose to Isabela if you want."

Six years of knowing Varric, and he still tried to pretend he didn't worry. She shook her head. "No," she said automatically. "I'm-"

"Busy," he finished. Varric sighed and crossed his arms. "I'll catch up to you, Blondie." He waved at Anders to go on ahead.

The mage looked back at her, concern clouding his eyes. Natale smiled and shrugged back. An unspoken "I'm fine." It was a lie, and he knew it. He looked just as shaken as she felt. But he turned and disappeared through the gate to Lowtown nonetheless.

Varric walked with her to the back door of the old Amell estate. "Hawke," he said, frowning in the dim torchlight. "How often do you get a decent night's sleep these days?"

It was useless lying to Varric. Telling falsehoods to a man who plied his trade with them never ended well. Natale sat down on the bench outside the estate, running her fingers over the fine metalwork. "A few times a month," she admitted.

"Last time you took a meal at regular hours?"

"Can't remember. Maybe a year ago."

"You're not doing any...I don't know, creepy shit to keep yourself going, are you?"

She opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, then sighed and dropped her head into her hands. She felt Varric sit down on the bench beside her, and her heart warmed with sudden affection for the dwarf.

She had to be strong, responsible, sure for the others. But Varric didn't need anything of her save her friendship, and these days, having a steady friend she could confide in was worth more than any amount of money or power.

"I know you've been helping me out with what remains of the mage underground on the sly," she said, turning to smile at him. "You and I work the same way-throwing our influence around. I appreciate it."

"Ah, Hawke, what's a few sovereigns for dangerous people between friends?" he said with a shrug.

"Lyrium bribes cost a fortune these days, Varric. It was more than a few sovereigns."

"I'm not about to see you run yourself into exhaustion over Meredith and a couple of crazy mages," said Varric sharply.

"It's not like that. It's-"

"A larger principle, I know. I've heard it from Blondie a hundred times." He gave her an appraising look, taking in the premature crow's feet, the shadows under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. "I think I'm just sick of mages and templars. Present company excluded, of course."

Natale had to laugh at that. "That's me. Your friendly neighborhood maleficar." Even saying the words, she had to resist the urge to look over her shoulder for templars. Blood magic was still blood magic, and Meredith's people could be anywhere.

Sweet Andraste, Anders' paranoia was beginning to rub off on her. And the worst part was that he wasn't entirely wrong. The templars knew all too well where her sympathies lay. Only her extreme care and her underworld connections had kept her one step ahead of them in her attempt to get as many mages as possible out of Kirkwall in the last three years. One wrong move...

"It doesn't matter," she said quietly. She leaned back on the bench, looking up at the stars. "One way or another, it'll be over soon." It was almost a relief. Almost.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You heard Sister Nightingale. And..." She hesitated for a moment, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "And Meredith's already sent to Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment."

Varric's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, Hawke," he said slowly, utterly flabbergasted. "Where did you hear this?"

"From one of the templars in the Gallows. Ser Kerras," she said, spitting out the name like a curse. "Anders and I arranged this morning for Tobrius to meet us by the herbalist's so I could give him instructions on how to leave Kirkwall. We overheard Kerras and some of the other templars when we were waiting for him."

"She bypassed the Grand Cleric?" asked Varric, his eyes widening like saucers.

Natale snorted. "Even she thinks Elthina's useless." She rubbed her temples again, trying to ease the pounding ache behind her eyes. "Please don't go spreading this around, Varric. It was all I could do to keep Anders from attacking the templars in the middle of the bloody Gallows."

"I'm not Blondie. I'm a businessman," he said, trying for a smile. But his usually smiling eyes were deeply troubled. "And now I'm a businessman who's late for Wicked Grace." He got to his feet, and so did she.

She knew it was selfish to lay her burdens on Varric, but really, who else could she talk to? She spent most of her time with Anders just trying to keep him happy and emotionally stable. And saying anything to Aveline would put her friend in a dangerous and compromising position. Before he left, she stepped into the house and grabbed a bottle of fine Orlesian white wine.

The Comte de Launcey had sent it over a few months ago for her birthday. She still hadn't touched it.

"Here," she said, handing the expensive wine to Varric. "I'll be with you in drunken spirit."

He accepted the bottle, and the last she caught of him was a worried smile before she closed the back door of the estate softly behind her. It was almost midnight now-Bodahn, Orana, and Sandal were likely asleep. She tiptoed past the servant rooms in the lower estate toward the fireplace, where Calenhad lay asleep in front of the dying embers.

She made a mental note to have Bodahn clean the fireplace. It resembled a mine shaft. Then there were those letters from her fellow conspirators that she'd yet to answer. She also had to send Athenril a note and check up on whether the last batch of apostates to come through her cellars had made it out of the city safely. Thank the Maker she'd sold the Bone Pit as soon as it fell into her hands completely. The gold from that could probably finance a few more bribes for the Docks gangs to deal with the increased templar presence...

By about one in the morning, she had made some headway with her work, but sleep was still out of the question. She was restless, jittery. She got up from her desk and pulled a cloak over her armor before reaching for her staff. She never went anywhere unarmed or unarmored these days. Champion or no, she was responsible for too many people and had too many enemies to be careless anymore.

Scribbling a note to Orana and Bodahn should they wake and find her gone took her just a few seconds. No point in worrying them too, though she knew that even her servants could sense the strain. She placed it on her writing desk and slipped out the front door, reveling in the cool and silent night air. Varric was right-Hightown really was nicer at night. Ten minutes later, she looked up and found that her feet had taken her to the steps of the Chantry.

She considered it for a moment. The chill was beginning to get to her. And although there were always templars around, even Meredith wasn't insane enough to have her assassinated in the Chantry. Yet. She leaned against the heavy bronze doors and let herself in, her boots echoing slightly off the stone floor and vaulted ceiling.

Natale was hardly pious. But she did like this place at night. It was peaceful, quiet, without all the toadying and guilt and repression. She swallowed a smile, remembering what Isabela had once said about the Chantry. Boring? Yes. But she could use some boring at the moment after the day she'd had. She started making her way to the center of the Chantry, the feet of the golden statue of Andraste.

"Hawke?"

She had her staff drawn, lightning crackling between her palms before she recognized Sebastian, peering out at her through a half-open door. Heart pounding, she lowered her staff and let the spell disappear in a cloud of sparks.

"Maker's breath, Sebastian," she gasped. "Don't _do _that."

"Sorry." He approached her more cautiously, and she saw now that he was wearing the simple shirt and pants of a Chantry brother. He clearly didn't need to be as paranoid as she did. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No worries," she said, putting the staff back. "You can just chalk it up to Anders' paranoia rubbing off on me."

She tried for a smile, and Sebastian made a pained face. That joke cut a little too close to home for them both, and she quickly shut her mouth. Sebastian sat on the steps leading up to the Grand Cleric's lectern, gesturing for her to join him.

"What brings you here?" he asked curiously. "I know you're not exactly the most devout of people."

This time, her mouth quirked in a genuine smile. That was an understatement, and for all of Sebastian's gentle efforts, they'd simply had to agree to disagree, as they usually did. "I just needed a walk to clear my head," she said lightly. "What about you? Why are you still up?"

"I was praying."

"Figures."

Sebastian shook his head. "I was thanking the Maker, Hawke. He has finally shown me my true purpose."

"Really? Did it come with a nice handy manual in shiny golden letters?"

He chose to ignore her irreverence. It came with knowing her for as long as he had. "It came," he said steadily, "in the form of Sister Nightingale."

When Natale didn't reply, he continued, "I came back to the Chantry and told Elthina what she said. But she won't listen to reason; she refuses to leave her flock." He sighed, then looked at Natale. "Maybe you can talk to her?"

"Elthina doesn't even like me," said Natale incredulously. "Why would she listen to me and not you?"

Her insides always twisted when people looked at her the way he was looking at her, all hopeful and naive and trusting. "Because you're the Champion of Kirkwall."

If Natale Hawke had a copper for every time she heard that in the past three years, she wouldn't have to worry about money, Deep Roads fortune or otherwise. "I behead an Arishok, and suddenly everyone thinks I'm a miracle worker," she said, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.

"If it comes to war, Elthina will throw herself between Meredith and Orsino and be torn apart," said Sebastian urgently. "If she will not leave, I will be her shield. That is my purpose."

"Don't be an idiot," said Natale sharply. "You'll be torn apart with her."

"She has chosen to stay and work toward peace in the face of terrible danger. How can I show any less courage?" Natale bit her lip to keep herself from replying. She knew Sebastian. She knew he'd do whatever his conscience told him, come hell or high water. All she would do is provoke him if she said anything.

"I thought..." Sebastian took a deep breath, then plunged ahead as though he was about to lose his nerve. "I thought I was going to return to Starkhaven soon. But I cannot leave Elthina at the mercy of those apostates. We must put down this ridiculous rebellion and solidify the Chantry's hold. Then I can return to my people with a clean conscience."

For a moment, the words didn't process. And then slowly, his meaning began to filter through her brain. Natale got to her feet, cold anger surging through her. "You do realize who you're talking to?" she said in a low and dangerous voice.

To his credit, Sebastian didn't back down. "I know you have sympathy for the rebels," he said, looking up at her with pitying eyes. "But even you must see that they cannot win."

Natale closed her eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths, fighting the anger coiled inside her like a snake. Sebastian was not a mage. He would never understand. But now, she had to make him understand...for both their sakes. She opened her eyes and started to pace restlessly, like a caged animal.

"Imagine being a little girl of six, and wondering if your father will come home at night," she said quietly, her voice shaking. "Imagine watching your baby sister play, and praying the templars won't drag her away in chains. Imagine running and hiding, from town to town, for simply wanting to grow up with your family like any other child."

"And now-" Her voice broke. She had never bared her soul like this to anyone but Anders, and certainly not Sebastian. But she had no choice; this was the only way she could make him see. She stopped pacing and turned to face him, keen grey eyes burning.

"And now imagine that one day you realize your days of cowering are over. You wake, and find that you are strong. That you can step into the light, turn...and fight back."

Sebastian was silent for almost a full minute. Then he whispered, "You're talking about Anders."

She nodded. There was no point in denying it. For all the difficulties, all the danger and the heartache, Anders had quenched her fears. He gave her the greatest gift and most powerful weapon she could ever hope to possess. Hope burned in her like a flame, sustained her through the long hours of strain she faced every day. Hope for a world in which the terrified little girl behind the famed Champion of Kirkwall could let go of her fears and be at peace.

"Hawke..." Sebastian began, his eyes narrowed with worry. "It's not my place to judge. But you know Anders is a dangerous man. And selfish. He'll never put you above his own needs."

The look on her face chilled him to the bone. "I don't expect him to put me above freedom for our kind," she replied coldly. "Because when the battle lines are drawn, neither will I."

He didn't reply. He couldn't. She turned her back on a stunned Sebastian and made for the doors of the Chantry, each footstep heavy. She was halfway out the door when she heard Sebastian get up and start to follow her.

"Hawke."

Natale paused, stepping back inside. "Sebastian?"

"Hawke, please. Don't do this."

She closed her eyes and swallowed against the lump in her throat. For a moment, the sound of his quiet plea made her resolve falter. Would it be so terrible to be selfish again and only care about her own friends and family? Maker help her, she wanted him to be right. She wished more than anything that he was right. But for all her attempts at building a peace for herself, she was made for war. Even her magical skills dealt in death. Nothing would change that. Nothing could.

Her fingers found the talisman at her throat, felt the magic inside beating like a second heart. She remembered the man who had given it to her, before consuming himself in flame. They had more in common than she would ever have admitted six years ago. She wondered if the saarebas had seen then what she could not.

_Existence is the only choice. Asit tal-eb. It is to be._

She opened her eyes, turned toward Sebastian, and memorized the way he looked-silhouetted against the dim torchlight at the feet of Andraste, his palms open in a gesture of peace. If she was going to do this, she had to do it with open eyes, and to his face. She owed him that much.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. And she was. She truly was. "But I can't be anyone but who I am."

The door of the Chantry swung shut behind her with a deafening finality. She wished she could go back to when things were simpler. Wished she was still a child who could find comfort in a parent's arms. But wishes were a dime a dozen, and no amount of wishing would bridge the abyss that now yawned before her feet.

She passed the spot by the Chanter's Board where she'd first met Prince Sebastian Vael all those years ago, and did not look back.

The lines were drawn. The war, begun.

And trust was its first victim.


End file.
